


Gnossienne

by navigator, pukeandcry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Barebacking, Comeplay, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:16:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1785385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navigator/pseuds/navigator, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukeandcry/pseuds/pukeandcry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis sets a challenge for himself; it gets a bit out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gnossienne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beckaandzac (becka)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/becka/gifts).



> written for [becka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/becka/gifts), who wanted louis wearing a plug all day until he's desperate to be fucked. we hope we did your prompt justice!

As with most things that start off innocuously enough before quickly taking a turn for the unbearable, this is all down to Harry and his lack of boundaries.

Louis intends to spend the rest of their day off lying as still as possible in his hotel room. It's been an arse-long week, and he's been shouted at for swearing too much in an interview again, missed four calls from his mum because he'd been stuck in meetings, and had a show nearly every night. It's all standard fare, really, and he's mostly used to it, it's just that it's been weeks straight of this, and that tends to build up. He just wants to be still, now, left alone with his phone and the television and an enormous soft bed.

He must drift off at some point in the afternoon, because when he opens his eyes a bit later, the room has started to go dark, there's a new episode of Top Gear on the television, and Harry's knelt on the floor beside his bed, digging furiously through his suitcase.

Louis blinks several times, a bit out of sequence, and then tips his head over the edge of the bed. "Hello," he says sleepily, his voice coming out creaky and tired. "What're you doing down there?"

Harry turns to look at him and pulls an enormous grin, the one that shows both rows of his teeth and somehow always gets him out of trouble. "Hi," he says. "Looking for something."

“Yeah?” Louis asks, stretching out a kink in his neck. “In my bag?”

Harry turns back to the mess he’s making, throwing a few more items out of Louis’ suitcase into the haphazard pile that’s growing around him.

“That one head scarf I have, with like -- the red? But also the purple bits. Wanna wear it for the photoshoot tomorrow.” He tosses a pair of Louis’ pants with perhaps too much gusto, and Louis tries to scowl. It turns into a yawn halfway through, though.

"I don't have it, and you're putting that all back in order once you've finished making a mess," Louis says, waving a vague hand at the pile of his shit Harry's made. It wasn’t particularly _in_ order to start with, but he doesn’t think that’s the point. "What do I want with your twatty head scarf, anyway?"

"Dunno," Harry says, tossing a wrinkled vest over his shoulder. "Wank off in it when you miss me?"

"Bit hard to miss someone who won't get out of my hotel room," Louis says lazily. He reaches for the remote, but it’s slightly too far away to grab without moving, so he gives up.

"You always miss me," Harry says happily, tipping over a wall of Vans, "because I’m so charming. Even when I'm around. Everyone does."

Louis makes a noise at that, unwilling to agree and yet, infuriatingly, unable to contradict him. He focuses on Jeremy Clarkson on the television instead.

After several long moments of Harry scattering his belongings everywhere, he makes a vague noise of triumph. "Oh, hang on."

Louis twists his head to see what he's found. "What?" He knows it's not the silk scarf Harry's after, since Louis hasn't bloody _got_ it, but Harry's not above repurposing other people's belongings as headwear, and if Louis has to get up to stop his things from being pinched and cut up with a pair of Caroline's sewing scissors, he plans to, no matter how lazy he’s feeling.

"Was right about the wanking bit, it seems," Harry says, sounding smug as he stands up and crosses over to the bed, holding something in his hand.

"What are -- _oh_ ," Louis says when he sees what Harry's found.

"Maybe I'll just borrow this for tomorrow instead," he says with an infuriating smirk.

Louis nearly tumbles off the bed grabbing for it, and he’d be embarrassed at how close he comes to wiping out completely if he wasn’t so focused on the butt plug Harry’s managed to find in his suitcase and is now inspecting very carefully.

Harry dodges him without tripping over his own feet, somehow, and dangles the toy in front of him tauntingly.

“You should really hide your secret sex toy stash a bit better,” he says, entirely too satisfied with himself.

Louis happens to know that the plug was in a small black pouch, inside _another_ zippered bag, tucked in the bottom of one of the small compartments of his suitcase, so he’s not sure what discretionary measures Harry thinks he ought to be taking that he isn’t already, short of a combination lock. Which, actually, given Harry’s determination to snoop, might not be out of the question.

“Where’d you even get this?” Harry asks delightedly.

As a matter of fact, Louis’d gotten it off the internet -- is there some other way to buy sex toys when you’re famous, he wonders? -- before the start of tour, mostly on a lark, and then tucked it in his bag and promptly forgotten about it until this very moment. He doesn’t see how that’s any of Harry’s business, though, so he doesn’t bother to say.

“Give it back, you pervert,” he says, trying to sound firm and absolutely not blush.

“Unless _you_ were planning to wear it,” Harry carries on, ignoring him entirely and still smirking for England. “Y’know. For the photoshoot.”

“Maybe I was,” Louis snaps, wrestling Harry to the bed and prying the plug out of his hands. He gets it away, eventually, but he winds up with his knees on either side of Harry’s hips and a bit out of breath. Harry, maddeningly, is still smirking at him.

“Do it,” Harry says, going limp underneath him. 

Louis scoffs and rolls his eyes, making a huffy sound, the combination of all three adding up to something that feels a lot like overcompensation. “It’s cute that you think you can tell me what to do,” he counters, trying for cocky and landing a lot closer to ‘breathless’ than he’d hoped for.

“Not like I actually think you’d do something like that,” Harry continues, eyeing him carefully. “You wouldn’t actually -- nah,” Harry cuts himself off. “You definitely wouldn’t. Nevermind.”

“Shame about your headscarf,” Louis says loudly, climbing off of Harry and waving toward the door. “I’ll make sure to light it on fire if it turns up. Now piss off, please.”

Harry, maddeningly, just continues to grin until he bumbles out of the room, the door snicking shut behind him as he goes. Once he’s gone, Louis tries to resettle himself on the bed and forget what’s just happened, but infuriatingly, he can’t -- and every time he nearly manages, he glances over at the plug sitting innocuously on the bed beside him.

He sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. There goes his restful afternoon.

-

The problem is, even after he’s kicked Harry out and locked the door with the bolt and the chain behind him, Louis can’t stop thinking about it -- about wearing the plug all day like Harry’d said. The idea stays with him for the rest of the evening.

It _should_ sound like a terrible idea. He’s had toys inside him before, but not like _that_ \-- he’s only used them when he’s already being fucked, or getting himself off. He’s never, like, just worn one for any amount of time, going about his normal business. It seems like it’d be uncomfortable, or at least -- at least a challenge.

And God, that shouldn’t make him even more intrigued at the idea, but it _does_ \-- pushing himself, forcing himself to get through tomorrow’s meetings and photoshoot with his arse full, without letting anyone know what he’s up to. Jesus. He’s not sure he can do it, and that makes him want to try even more.

He brushes his teeth and showers slowly, and by the time he’s getting back into bed, he’s half hard from thinking it over. Clenching his teeth a bit, he shoves his pants down his hips and takes his dick in his hand, dragging his fist over it lightly while he thinks about what a terrible idea it is, and how he thinks he’s going to _have_ to try, now.

It’s Harry’s bloody _fault_ , anyway, he thinks as he starts to wank himself properly. Harry’s the one who reminded him the plug existed in the first place, which in turn just reminds him how long it’s been since he’s been really, properly fucked. Entirely too long. Fucking _ages_ , really, and now that he’s started thinking about finally getting something inside him, he’s not sure he’ll be able to stand it if he doesn’t get it soon.

It’s an embarrassingly short amount of time before he’s biting back a groan and spilling all over his fingers and the curve of his belly, overwhelmed by a disjointed filmstrip of half-memories and ideas, fingers and cocks and toys he’s had in him before, and how hard he’d come from them all.

Distantly, he thinks he probably should’ve waited to shower until after coming all over himself, but it’s hard to feel too arsed about it now, and he wipes himself off cursorily with a tissue.

Infuriatingly, the orgasm does fuck all to slow the idea in his head. He’d hoped all he needed was a good wank and he’d be able to get back to more pressing matters, like figuring out how to punish Liam for borrowing his trainers the day before without asking, but all it’s done is shifted the idea from something frantic and disjointed to the kind of obsessive hyperfocus he knows he’s shit at trying to ignore.

He sighs, gives a moment more of perfunctory protest, and then resigns himself to it. He knows he’s going to try it, now, no way around it. As he turns off the light and burrows into his duvet, he tries to feel a sense of accomplishment that he’s at least self-aware enough to know when he won’t be able to turn down a bad idea. That’s got to count for something, at least.

-

He sets his alarm for thirty minutes earlier than usual the next morning. He forgets why, for a moment, when it goes off in the dim light of just past seven, but then it comes back to him, and his stomach swoops a bit as he shuts off his phone.

Right. He’s giving himself extra time so he can put a butt plug in his arse and then wear it around all day while he works.

It’s almost enough to make him laugh as he goes about finding clothes to wear, and then -- and then lying out the plug on the duvet next to him. It’s almost _taunting_ him, it seems. He can nearly feel Harry’s smirking disbelief -- _nah, you wouldn’t_ \-- and all it does it redouble his resolve. He’s going to wear it all day. He’s going to, and Harry can go fuck himself.

Or -- something.

Harry’s rearranged his entire bag, so it takes him a moment to find all of his shit, including the half-empty bottle of lube that ought to be tucked inside the same pocket the plug was in, but seems to have mysteriously relocated.

Eventually he finds it shoved beneath a ball of socks, and sets it gently on the bed beside the toy, carefully ignoring them as he goes about brushing his teeth and sorting his hair.

When he’s finished, he kneels carefully on the bed, taking a moment to think about what he’s doing. For a second, it’s almost overwhelming -- is he really going to be able to do this? But he _wants_ to, fuck, so he pushes it aside and carefully shoves off his track pants, lying back on the bed.

His dick isn’t quite hard yet, but he thinks it wouldn’t take much, even with the wank he’d had before bed, and he’s not sure he wants to go there quite yet -- he doesn’t want to wind up just getting off once he’s got the toy inside him and being done with it. He wants to drag this out for the rest of the day, and getting hard won’t help that at all, so he tries to think in cold, clinical terms as he slicks up his fingers and reaches around his hip, pressing them gently to his hole.

He slides two in on the first go, wincing a bit. It really has been ages since he’s been fucked, or even properly fingered, and he tries to channel the aching stretch into something focused. He’s not here to get off, so it’s all right if it hurts a bit. He just needs to be slick and stretched enough to fit it inside him, and then he’ll be done with it.

He scissors his fingers a bit, and then shoves in a third, again too quickly. Without meaning to, he brushes against his prostate, and the direct contact combined with how he’s not quite hard yet makes him wince, more intense than properly pleasurable.

Twisting his wrist a few more times, he decides that’s good enough, and pulls out. Without giving himself too much time to think it over, he grabs the plug, slicks it up with more lube, and shoves it inside almost ruthlessly.

The plug isn’t enormous, but there are a few small ridges along it, and those make his teeth clench as they go in. Once it’s settled all the way to the flared base, it’s… it’s _fine_. He’ll get used to it, probably. There’s a bit of a throb from going too fast, and that irreproducible sensation of being all the way full up that makes him feel like his veins are fizzing, but it’s not overwhelming. It could be, if he were to reach around and tug it out again, fucking himself with it, but he’s moved his hand away, digging his nails into his bare thigh and trying to force himself to acclimate to it.

On the bedside table, his phone vibrates. _car in ten don’t be late lazy arse_ , the preview of the text from Niall reads before the screen goes dark again. He’s not sure the exact time, but his hands are a bit messy and occupied, so he doesn’t bother to check. He can be finished in ten minutes, anyway. Probably.

He grabs a handful of tissue from the side table and wipes his hands off a bit before pulling on his clean pants and jeans. He does it lying on the bed on his back, not sure he’s quite ready to hop up and jump around yet, and it takes a moment of careful squirming before he gets them done up.

Gingerly, he stands up. “Oh,” he says to himself, shifting his weight a bit. It’s -- he can _feel_ it, and maybe it’s stupid that that’s somehow surprising to him, but it’s true none the less. There’s a difference between anticipating what it’d be like to have it inside him, his jeans done up over it like there’s nothing amiss, and actually _feeling_ it there, pressed against him, stretching his rim just slightly.

He looks at himself in the full length mirror. His chest is a bit flushed, and his dick is noticeably half hard before he shifts it around, but other than that, there’s no telltale giveaway for what he’s doing. That’s almost surprising, too. He couldn’t help but assume it’d be like a neon sign above his head -- _I’ve got something in my arse, everyone._

If he walks gingerly, it mostly stays in place, although he gasps when he bends down to fetch a t-shirt and his shoes. Okay. So bending’s out, then. He straightens carefully, tugging the shirt on and shoving his feet into his trainers without bothering to undo the laces, and then grabs his phone and wallet before heading downstairs to meet the lads.

In the elevator, he’s tempted to reach behind him, to prod at the seat of jeans to see if he can feel it through the fabric, to check if the pressure will make him hiss. But he thinks of lift cameras, and how he probably oughtn’t be poking around at it if he wants to go unnoticed, and forces his hands to stay firmly at his sides as the floors ping by.

So far, he’s doing all right. It’s been less than ten minutes, yeah, but as the lift spits him out into the lobby, he’s hit with the thought that _he can do this_.

-

“All right, Tommo?” Liam asks as they’re shuttled into the van. “You never came down last night.”

Vaguely, Louis remembers that he was supposed to watch a movie on the bus with Liam and Zayn. He’d forgotten even before Harry had turned up, honestly, and there’d been no hope for him afterward, consumed by thoughts of plugs up his arse.

“Got distracted,” he says vaguely. He has to twist carefully to get into the van without moving the plug, and it takes a lot of his attention.

Across the van, Harry glances up, an unreadable expression on his face, and for a moment Louis thinks he’s about to open his stupid mouth about their run-in, so he frowns as sternly as he can manage, and Harry drops his gaze back down to his phone, smirking but blessedly silent.

“Didn’t miss much anyway,” Liam says agreeably, elbowing Zayn as the van pulls away. “This one was out before the opening credits.”

“I was tired,” Zayn complains. “And I’ve seen Batman Begins, like, twenty times, mate.”

“And yet you were the one who picked it,” says Liam. They devolve from there, fussing about whose idea it’d been, but Louis tunes it out. He tries to focus on the road going by outside the window, or the cold blast from the air conditioner -- anything besides the throb in his arse, or Harry sitting serenely across from him, obliviously engrossed in something on his phone.

The bastard.

-

It’s not so bad for the first few hours or so. Well, yeah, if he moves the wrong way, it jostles the plug inside him, which makes him wince and flush, but if he holds very still, it’s all right.

The first thing they’ve got is just a meeting, standard fare, and doesn’t involve much movement. He thinks they’re approving merchandise, but he’s so focused on finding the exact right position to sit in -- halfway off the chair with his weight balanced on his right side seems to work best -- and then studiously not moving from it that he’s not really sure.

It gets worse once they’re dismissed, though.

There’s a photoshoot next, and no time to get back to the hotel -- not that he’s sure what he’d do about it there, anyway; he’s still determined to see this thing through -- so they’re all herded back into the van to take them to the venue.

The road there is very, very bumpy.

By the time they arrive at the lot he’s starting to get shamefully hard, squirming like he can’t decide if he’s trying to get away from the plug or press against it harder. He winces as they’re shuttled into the building, attempting to school his face into something passive and aware that he’s probably failing spectacularly.

Harry’s staring at him as they get sent off together to wait for Lou. “You’re being weird,” he says thoughtfully as he drapes himself over a tiny couch set up in the dressing room. He’s frowning curiously, like Louis is a riddle he’s trying to sort out.

“Weird how?” Louis asks, swallowing a bit too heavily. Maybe he’s being even less subtle than he’d thought. The idea makes his face warm in a way that, terribly, does nothing to get his dick to go down. It only makes it worse.

Lou bustles in then, and doesn’t even bother with pleasantries before she shoves him down into a chair. It startles a gasp out of him, on the verge of too much. The plug jabs him directly in the prostate, and it’s all he can do not to whimper.

Harry frowns again, like he’s just made his point.

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Louis continues, suddenly feeling a bit desperate to explain himself. Harry might have his legs thrown over an arm of the sofa, all splayed out and casual with his phone in his hand like always, but he’s also got his determined, nosy expression on, the one that’s always made Louis shrink a bit under its focus. “I’ve barely said anything all day.”

“Yeah,” Harry says slowly. “D’you not think that’s a bit weird?”

Louis opens his mouth to defend himself, but Harry’s got a point. Louis knows the lads can always tell when he’s out of sorts based on how loud he’s _not_ being -- it’s his quickest giveaway. Feeling a bit fuzzy, he shuts his mouth again, trying to find a comfortable way to sit in Lou’s makeup chair as she fusses around him.

“Sit _still_ ,” she says impatiently, shoving him back. He shuts his eyes weakly.

“You’re all sweaty,” Lou chides him as she sets to dusting powder over his forehead. He grimaces. He _knows_ , and he can already feel the makeup going tacky on his hairline where it sticks to the pinpricks of sweat beading up there. “Have you been running about?”

“No,” he says, trying not sound either breathless or petulant.

“Are you poorly?” Lou asks curiously, dotting something on a spot at the edge of his jawline.

“ _No_ ,” he insists. Jesus, he wishes they’d stop _badgering_ him about it.

Lou just frowns at him. “Well I’m not doing this over, so don’t go sweating it all off, yeah? We’re behind as it is.”

“You do look peaky,” Harry agrees.

“Thank you, doctor,” he snaps, scowling. He turns to the mirror, focusing on his reflection. He’s maybe a _bit_ flushed, but nobody asked Harry.

Harry just shrugs in the reflection, and goes back to his phone. Lou steps in front of him, then, and he has to focus all his attention on sitting still while she does him up, a process he has little patience for in the best of circumstances. And right now is definitely not that.

By the time it’s over, he’s nearly whimpering and thinking obsessively of nothing but the plug. For a brief panicky moment he thinks about calling it off, locking himself in the nearest toilet and getting the bloody thing out of him as quickly as possible, but by the time Lou deems him passable, one of the handlers is shoving him onto set for lighting tests, so he doesn’t have the chance. He’ll have to see it through for another hour, at least. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or dismayed by that.

As he goes, Harry’s lumbering into Lou’s chair easy as anything, a placid smile on his face as he waits for his hair to get stuck up with ten pounds of gunk. For a brief moment Louis wants to throttle him, just for the fact that he hasn’t got anything up _his_ arse making this impossible.

He’s on the set before he has very long to focus on his nonsensical outrage, though. It’s all he can do to will his semi away by the time the rest of the lads turn up and the shoot actually starts.

He takes several steadying breaths, and waits to be told what to do.

-

He’s okay until the box comes into the picture. Well, he’s not okay until then, but the box definitely makes it worse.

It’s more of a crate, really, but the photographer slides it out into the middle of the set and instructs them all to sit on it as best they can, grinning when he sees it dawn on the five of them that it’s obviously too small.

“It’ll be a laugh,” he says, and the other lads are quick to agree. Niall jumps onto it and jumps off with his legs split in the air while Zayn circles it carefully. Harry attempts to sit on it and then pretends to fall off with his arms pinwheeling. Louis doesn’t realize he’s standing there with every muscle in his body clenched, just watching, until Liam hooks an arm around his shoulders and directs him to sit on it, at the very least.

He does, gingerly, doing his best to put the least amount of pressure on his arse as he possibly can. That plan lasts for all of ten seconds before Niall takes the spot right next to him, flopping down practically in his lap.

“Watch it!” Louis snaps, clenching both hands on the seat.

Niall laughs at him under what would normally be the correct assumption -- that Louis was joking. Louis takes a deep breath and forces out a laugh just for the camera, dutifully attempting to ignore the way the plug is hitting him in the _exact right spot_. All day he’s only barely managed to avoid the type of jostling that would cause him to cry out, but the pressure on his arse is immense, and he feels, somehow, even more full than he has done all day, which doesn’t make sense at all considering he ought to feel a _little_ more stretched than when he rather mercilessly pressed it inside of himself this morning.

He’s going to get properly hard, he thinks, and he’s not going to be able to stop it, and he’s going to have to give up early and call a break so he can go have a wank in the toilet. It won’t even be that satisfying, he tells himself. Two in the afternoon is nowhere near as good as late in the evening when he’ll be even more keyed up and desperate than he is already.

An interview would be better than the torture that is a photoshoot, honestly, because at least then he’d have to engage in something other than his own thoughts. If he talks while the camera flashes his mouth looks crooked and strange, and being repeatedly told what to do only makes him think of everything he _can’t_ do because he’s all plugged up, movements limited to about half of what they normally are.

Gritting his teeth, he shakes his head and shoves Niall off the box, forcing himself to grin wolfishly into the camera while Niall tumbles over, taking Zayn down with him.

He can do this. He can.

-

He maybe can’t, though, because by the time they’re finally done he’s been shifted and positioned and repositioned so many times that, yes, he’s definitely, properly hard, his dick nearly aching with it in his tight jeans.

He takes a moment to blame everyone else for this, just on principle. The photographer’s assistant had been fit as fuck and had enormous hands, and he hadn’t been shy about manipulating them bodily into whatever position the art director wanted. That’d be enough to get Louis stiff on a regular day, honestly. Having his arse stuffed full and being unable to forget about it on top of that had only made it exponentially harder to deal with.

He rushes away from everyone as soon as they’ve called a wrap, darting off into the dressing room, desperate to be alone. He’s going to have to wank, he thinks. Maybe he can -- maybe he can just do it now, and leave the plug in, maybe fuck himself with it just to really _feel_ it without actually taking it out. He’d still be fulfilling the terms of the challenge that way, if not perhaps the spirit. Anyway, he’d never explicitly made it a rule that he _couldn’t_ wank during. The idea is a relief, suddenly, and he’s split between elation for figuring out a loophole that’ll ease the ache in his cock without amounting to a forfeit, and a vague sense of disappointment in himself for not thinking of it earlier.

Next time, he tells himself as he rushes off to the dressing room -- _next_ time he comes up with some weird personal sex dare, he’s going to set clearer parameters.

He’s got his hand in his trousers before the door even bangs shut all the way behind him, and the relief is so immediate he groans.

In the next instant, though, the door is opening again, and he only has an instant to yank his hand out of his jeans before spinning around, ready to tear the head off whoever’s interrupted him.

Of course, it’s bloody _Harry_.

Louis throws up his hands with an exasperated groan. “Yes?”

Harry shrugs infuriatingly slowly. “You rushed off. Wanted to see if you were all right.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Louis says. His cock is positively _throbbing_ , the ghost of his hand only taunting him now, and he whimpers despite his best efforts, clenching his hand into a fist just for something to do with it.

Harry frowns at him, apparently unconvinced. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Can you please fuck off now?” Louis croaks out a bit desperately.

Harry makes no move to leave, though, leaning easily against the arm of the sofa. “What’s with you today?” he asks curiously. “You’ve been strange all day, and you were all, like. Fidgety, out there.” He gestures back towards the set.

Louis squeezes his eyes shut, bending over to rest his hands on the counter of the dressing room mirror. “Dunno what you’re talking about. Just playing it up for the cameras.”

“Hm,” Harry says, squinting his eyes at him suspiciously. He crosses his arms and walks over to where Louis is bent over, arms shaking a bit. “See, I don’t really believe you. That wasn’t your, like, normal can’t-sit-still shit. Something’s off.”

He’s looking at Louis so directly, now, and fuck. He’s not sure how it feels like _that’s_ what’s about to undo him, but Jesus, it is. Louis glances at Harry in the mirror, not sure he can handle eye contact right now, but even that proves to be a mistake. Harry’s shirt is unbuttoned so ungodly low, and the stretch in Louis’ arse has taken on a new twinge, and he can’t help but let out a short, breathy moan. He tries to turn it into a cough, although it’s a poor job.

Harry frowns. “Really, _are_ you poorly?” he asks. “You still look flushed. D’you want me to go get--”

“No,” Louis grits out. “No, I’m fine, it’s just--”

His hip bumps the makeup counter, then, and he can’t help the tiny _ah_ that comes out of his mouth.

“Lou,” Harry says sternly. “Tell me what’s wrong or I’ll get Paul.”

Louis takes a breath. Harry’s probably not bluffing, and fuck, he’d _really_ love to go the rest of his life without having to explain to Paul what he’s up to at the moment. Jesus.

“Do you remember,” he says slowly. “When you were in my room last night…”

He trails off, willing Harry to understand from that alone, because he’d really like not to have to say the words.

“Yeah,” Harry says slowly. “And?”

“And you found -- you found that thing,” Louis grits out.

“That -- _oh_ ,” Harry says, eyes going round in an instant as he understands.

“And you said,” Louis continues, feeling a bit hysterical and strangled, “you said I wouldn’t wear it all day. Remember?”

There’s a beat, and then realization blooms on Harry’s face. “Lou,” he says, voice instantly rougher.

Louis squinches up his face, trying to focus, but in an instant Harry’s an inch from him, spinning him around and clutching him by the hips, pivoting them together.

If it’s been ages since Louis’ been fucked, it’s been considerably longer since Harry’s touched him like this, and he thinks if he wasn’t so otherwise distracted, the contact would set him into something like a panic. As it is, all he wants now is for Harry to continue touching him, because even just the weight of his big hands through the fabric of Louis’ jeans is enough to make him desperate for it, near to jumping out of his skin.

It’s a feeling he remembers with an almost unsettling clarity. He’s always been a bit shit at forgetting, when it comes to Harry. So it feels almost inevitable that it turns out he hasn’t forgotten how to want Harry to touch him with such an overwhelming fever. For a moment, everything else fades -- the unlocked door to the dressing room, the plug in his arse, everything that isn’t Harry being this close to him again falling away.

"You didn't," Harry says hoarsely, his eyes going a bit wild as he presses his thumbs hard against Louis' hips. The movement jolts him, and the press of the toy inside him comes hurtling back with renewed insistence.

"Mm, kinda did," Louis says. He tries his best not to shove into Harry's hands, because despite how wild and pulled-apart he feels, he really does love the sight of Harry being the one to fall to pieces. He'd like to maintain at least the _barest_ illusion of being in control, here. It's just -- it's hard enough not to squirm as it is with the plug pressing and stretching him. Harry's hands on him is only making it that much more electric.

"I was _joking_ ," Harry says. There's something like awe in his voice, though, desperate and admiring, and Louis can't help himself -- he preens under it. He's always liked Harry's attention best. The look on his face very nearly makes the day of agony worth his trouble.

"Well I wasn't," he manages to get out without whining. "'M very -- ah -- very serious, actually."

Harry squeezes his eyes shut tight at that, and for a moment he leans forward to rest his forehead on the top of Louis' shoulder, like _he's_ the one that's overwhelmed by all of this. "Christ," he says. "You’ve had it in all day?"

"Yep," Louis says, biting a lip. He can smell the chemical citrus tang of whatever gunk Harry's got in his hair, and it makes him want to shove his face against it, wrap himself up in Harry's presence, every sensory bit of him, overwhelming and irresistible.

He tries to hold very still, instead. He doesn't want to beg yet.

"And, like… for the rest of the day?" Harry asks, lifting his head up. He looks at Louis with that unwavering attention that makes Louis understand why girls scream and go weak at the knees for him -- how could someone _not_ , honestly, with Harry looking at them like that?

"Yep," he says again, firmer than he feels. "So don't, like -- muck up my plans, all right?" He tries to wrench himself out of Harry's grasp, but the motion shifts the plug inside him, and he swears, bumping their hips together again.

“You’re hard,” Harry says, a bit dumbly.

“Well,” Louis says, “I should think so.”

“Were you,” Harry starts, a bit unsteadily. “Were you going to get yourself off, just now?”

“Was thinking about it,” Louis says.

“Is that part of your, like… plan?” Harry asks slowly. “Are you allowed to get off before you take it out?”

Louis tries to scoff. “I can do whatever I like. ‘S’my rules.”

Harry narrows his eyes at him. “I don’t think you should,” he says carefully.

Louis blinks. “Don’t think I should… wank off?”

Harry nods. “Until we get back to the hotel, at least. That’s like, the proper end of the day, yeah? Seems like quitting otherwise, don’t you think? It’s only the afternoon.” He leans in closer, biting his bottom lip.

Louis head swims a bit. He’s torn between telling Harry to fuck off, that he can wank off whenever he bloody well pleases, but he also suspects there’s something else beneath the suggestion -- an offer, it feels like. It throws him off his balance entirely.

“I know what time it is, thanks,” Louis says weakly, folding his arms across his chest only to keep himself from palming his cock through his jeans. The word _quitting_ rings in his ears, but unless Harry’s offering to finish him off right now, Louis really doesn’t think he can wait, not with Harry right in front of him, the warm pressure of his fingers the only thing he can think about, weirdly, even moreso than the plug. In a moment of weakness, he thinks, _I want to give in_ , so he speaks up: “I actually--”

“Louis, you in there?” Paul’s voice is muffled through the door, startling and loud enough to make Louis jump and slap a hand across his chest.

“Be out in a minute,” he calls, still staring at Harry.

“Now.” The door swings open, leaving just enough time for Harry to spin around and wave innocently at Paul, who’s got a stack of papers in his hands and looks harassed. “Oh, you’re here, too. Let’s go,” he says, waving them into the corridor. “Van’s waiting on you.”

With one final look back at Louis, Harry rakes a hand through his hair and trudges out after Paul, which allows Louis about five seconds to adjust himself in his jeans before he follows after them.

The drive back is no less bumpy than the ride there, but he’s so close to being finished that Louis almost feels _giddy_. In less than a half hour, one way or another, the plug will be out and Louis will have come hard enough to make up for a day’s wait and a dry spell that’s lasted weeks.

But even the thoughts of _it’ll be over soon_ aren’t tangible enough to relieve any of the pressure he feels. Every jostle feels like a thrust and each time they turn a corner Louis has to dig both hands into the plush seat beneath him just to resist the urge to whine and circle his hips like he so badly wants to do, just to feel how deep it really is, just to let himself _enjoy_ it rather than put up with it.

The frustration is part of the fun, though, he supposes. He knows that, at least obliquely -- he wouldn’t have done it if being on the edge all day wasn’t at least somewhat appealing to him. Harry’s sweetened the deal now with even the vaguest suggestion that he wants to take part in it once they’re alone, but even if he doesn’t show up to his room once they’re at the hotel, Louis isn’t going to wait for him. He can’t.

Everything seems a bit blurry when they shuffle out of the van and into the lobby. Maybe there are fans outside. Maybe Louis ignores everyone in favor of jabbing the arrow button near the lifts. He can’t particularly remember or focus on anything other than the way Harry looks from his eyes to his dick and back up again.

Louis wants to sprint into his room and get it over with, and he wants Harry to follow him. Honestly, with the way he’s staring at him, Louis thinks he actually might. But when he waves the key card in front of his door with shaking hands, Harry’s not there, and there’s no one left in the hallway. When he lets the door shut behind him, he’s alone.

He touches himself, first thing, and lets out a groan it seems like he’s been holding in for hours. He gives himself a squeeze over his jeans, breathing hard, but then waits, staring at the door as if it might just open by itself. 

He doesn’t mean to hesitate, really. All he’s wanted to do since this morning is get the bloody thing out of him and get off, and before Harry had to walk in on him in the dressing room and figure out what he’d done, Louis had no problem fantasizing about doing it himself.

Now, though, he’s got the chance, and all he’s doing is waiting a bit pathetically near the door, only touching his cock through the layer of his jeans.

It’s just. Harry. And the way he’d looked at him so hungrily in the van and the dressing room; the almost possessive way he’d gripped him before Louis shoved him off was enough to remind him of exactly the way he is when they’re together. When they fuck.

And now everything else seems less good in comparison, which is annoying in part because this whole challenge is sort of Harry’s fault in the first place, and how now he’s _also_ responsible for Louis standing uselessly just inside the door and not wanking himself into a frenzy at this very second.

And not that wanking himself wouldn’t be a satisfying end. It would, he’s nearly gagging to come. It’s just that getting well and truly fucked, like _properly_ fucked, would make the day _so_ much more worth it.

But fuck it, he thinks, unbuttoning his jeans. It’s been three minutes, which feels like three _hours_ after the day he’s had, and it’s Harry’s loss, anyway--

And then for the second time that day, he’s interrupted, this time by three quick knocks and the sound of someone attempting to open Louis’ locked door. He’s so confident it’s Harry that he doesn’t bother to hide the fact that his dick is pressed up against his belly, poking out from the waistband of his jeans.

Harry’s there, because of course he is, and Louis lets him in -- but he doesn’t shut the door; Harry does, when he pulls him close and spins him around until it shuts under the pressure of Harry pushing Louis back against it. He hitches Louis’ leg up around his hip and squeezes the meatiest part of his thigh as he runs a hand up his side. They’re both breathing hard, but Louis feels like he’s just jogged up three flights of stairs. Something about Harry’s hands actually winds him.

“It’s still in?” Harry asks, running his hand up his thigh and up to his ass, knuckling the crease of his jeans and pressing right up against the base on the first try.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Louis hisses, which counts as a yes, and Harry finally kisses him.

Louis’ kissed Harry for hours at a stretch before, long, meandering snogs that burn him up slowly from the inside. This isn’t one of those times, though. He already feels like he’s on fire, and he hasn’t got it in him to be patient.

He just wants Harry to fuck him as quickly as possible.

“Harry,” he gasps out as Harry’s tongue licks into his mouth. “C’mon, I need -- need you to.” He can’t manage to finish the sentence, but he thinks the way his hips are rolling up against Harry’s frantically is clear enough.

“What do you need?” Harry asks, pulling back just an inch. His long fingers drift to the fly of Louis’ jeans, tripping up on the button as he tries to undo it and kiss Louis again all at once.

“Need you to fuck me,” Louis finally manages, slurring it against Harry’s mouth. “Need you to take this _fucking_ thing out of me and then _fuck_ me, _God_.”

Harry groans, and finally manages to get the button open. The pressure on Louis’ cock lessens, but Harry doesn’t move to touch his dick, and somehow that feels even worse, having his trousers open and his cock hard and right _there_ and Harry not doing anything about it. “Jesus. Okay, Lou. Anything.”

Harry steps back, then, leaving Louis leaning against the door as Harry stares at him like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle -- what his next move is, Louis realizes.

Harry must decide quickly, though, because his face settles, and he takes a few steps further into the room, near the gleaming oak desk against a wall.

“C’mere,” Harry tells him.

Louis goes, pausing when he’s next to Harry, just an inch from the desk.

“Bend over,” Harry instructs.

It doesn’t even cross Louis’ mind to argue. He just folds in half, bracing himself over the desk with his forearms, arse up. He’s sweating and panting already, and he feels slutty and decadent like this. Jesus, if he jizzes untouched all over the posh leather-bound notebook with the hotel’s logo embossed on the cover he’ll never be able to look at stationery again, but it’s beginning to feel very possible.

Harry drags his hands over the curve of Louis’ hips, and then _yanks_ , his jeans and his pants coming down under his arse in one sharp jolt. They tug the base of the plug on their way, and Louis _shouts_ , a strangled, desperate noise that would be humiliating if he had any wits about it.

“Stay there,” Harry says, his voice husky. Louis obeys -- he’s more than content to let Harry tell him what to do, because at the moment, he can barely string a thought together, nevermind deal with the mechanics of this. He just needs to be fucked.

Behind him, Harry steps away, and Louis tries not to whine, but stays put. He peers over his shoulder and watches as Harry kneels down beside his bag, pawing through it again. It’s exactly the sight that had started this all the night before. Except then, Louis hadn’t been bent over with his bare arse up.

Harry finds the lube right where Louis’d tossed it that morning, and returns to stand behind him, setting the bottle next to Louis’ arm and resting a hand on the hot skin of his bare hip. His other hand nudges the base of the plug, and for the first time all day Louis doesn’t attempt to silence the cry that follows. The muscles in his neck give out so his head hangs down, chin to his chest as he braces himself for what he knows is about to come.

He can hear the lube top open, then a pause, then close again. Harry leans forward to kiss Louis right at the base of his neck, mumbling something Louis doesn’t quite catch. His voice sounds consoling, though, and he could be telling Louis about the time he found a bug in his Salt ‘n’ Shake as long as he doesn’t stop.

“I’ve got you,” Harry says, his voice sure and clear this time. Louis tries to relax when Harry’s fingers work the base of the plug and start to pull, gently, working lube over his rim at the same time, which feels -- it’s a _lot_. The emptiness once it’s out only lasts for a second, but it’s still immense.

“Breathe, Louis,” he hears, and follows that order because, yeah, he hadn’t even realize he’d been holding it in. Harry’s slick fingers fill him, and he’s so stretched out that he can’t even tell how many it is -- _what if it’s three_ , he thinks dimly, and the thought makes him proud and overwhelmed. It’s already so much better and different than he’d expected, half because he’d assumed he would be the one to pull it out himself.

“Alright?” Harry asks, and it’s not until Louis nods his consent that Harry uses his free hand to press his back down until his chest is on the desk and his fingers are deep and relentless. Louis’ noises are not practiced or particularly refined, but he can’t stop them. A glance over his shoulder reminds him that Harry hasn’t even undressed yet, that he’s just standing there fully clothed and fucking these sounds out of him.

“Harry,” he warns, bracing the desk with both hands. “This is -- ah -- it’s lovely, but--”

“Shh,” Harry hushes him, slows his fingers so Louis can catch his breath, for god’s sake. He bends over and kisses the back of Louis’ neck. “Still so tight, aren’t you?”

Okay. He can wait, maybe, if Harry’s going to fuck him so slow and deliberate. He comes to peace with it at the exact moment that Harry stops, retracting his fingers completely and brushing the excess on the back of Louis’ thigh.

For a moment, Harry doesn’t do anything but breathe behind Louis. Then his hand disappears from Louis’ thigh, and there’s a _thunk_ that Louis realizes, suddenly, is Harry’s belt buckle coming undone and hitting the floor.

Louis twists around, trying to see. Harry’s shirt is halfway undone, and his trousers are slipping down his hips without his belt, the poke of his dick visible where his flies are undone.

“C’mon,” he gasps. Jesus, he’s not even sure what he’s asking Harry for, but he needs _something_.

“Just -- hold on,” Harry says hoarsely. Then his hands are on Louis’ hips again as he flips Louis around, his bare arse biting into the edge of the desk. Harry stares at him, and then drops down to his knees. One of his hands runs up the exposed skin of Louis’ thigh, and for a moment Louis thinks Harry might lean in and suck him -- his cock is _so_ close to Harry’s mouth, after all -- but instead he carefully pulls Louis’ jeans and pants down the rest of the way from where they’re tangled just above his knees. Harry’s thumb feels hot on Louis’ ankle as he lifts each foot almost reverently, pulling his trousers off one leg and then the other before leaving them in a heap. When he’s finished, he leans back on his heels, staring up at Louis, and he has to shut his eyes because the sight of Harry knelt before him is apparently still too much for him to handle, even now.

And then Harry is on his feet again, Louis’ eyes snapping open, because Harry isn’t quiet and reverent anymore -- he makes a noise low in his throat that sounds almost pained as he yanks Louis away from the desk by the hips. “C’mere, get -- just…” He doesn’t seem to know what he’s trying to say, though, and then suddenly he’s got Louis lifted up by the hips, burying his face in Louis’ neck and biting as he walks them to the nearest expanse of wall and shoves them up against it.

For a moment, Louis feels completely unmoored. _Fuck_ , he’d known Harry’s strong, but he’s got Louis held up like he’s nothing, and that’s so fucking hot that Louis thinks his insides might become permanently twisted up with it, the way he’s nearly cramping with want and the feeling of being weightless in Harry’s arms.

“You’re so fucking -- d’you even know what you _do_ to me?” Harry asks, lips still smashed gracelessly against Louis’ neck. He bites down like he’s punctuating the question.

“I don’t…” Louis starts, but he can’t think straight enough to finish.

“Just -- just knowing you’ve had that in all _day_ , God,” Harry continues. His fingers are biting into Louis’ arse, sharp enough that Louis can feel his fingernails, and it’s almost too much. He reaches towards Harry’s chest, trying to fumble open the few buttons of his shirt he’d bothered to do up today, but only gets through two before the feeling of Harry’s tongue at the dip of his jaw is too distracting, not to mention the way Louis’ bare cock is pressed flush against the rough drag of Harry’s open jeans.

Louis gives up on the last button of Harry’s shirt, dropping his hands. He can’t -- he needs to do this now. He’s tired of waiting.

“C’mon, take me to bed,” Louis asks.

But Harry just shakes his head. “Can’t. Need to fuck you right here.” He lowers Louis for a moment, leaving him to balance on his tiptoes, still cradled between Harry’s broad chest and the wall, while he shoves his own tight jeans and pants down just far enough for his cock to come free, and then he’s lifting Louis up again.

This time, when Louis’ legs wrap around Harry, he can feel Harry’s cock snubbing up against his hole. It makes him gasp and buck towards it, because Jesus, he’s had the plug all day and Harry’s fingers for a bit but what he really needs, what he might scream if he doesn’t get right fucking now, is Harry’s fuck-off enormous cock in his arse.

“D’we need a condom?” Harry asks, low in his ear.

The back of Louis’ neck heats up.

“Dunno,” he says. “You fuck anyone else bare?” There’s only one person he’s ever done it like this with -- only one person he ever wanted to, really.

Harry tilts his head at him, curious, but then he slowly shakes his head no.

“Well,” Louis says. “Me either, so.”

There’s a long pause, and then Harry exhales shakily, hoisting Louis up again. “Okay,” he says, the head of his prick catching again, not quite pressing into Louis, but just _touching_.

“Please,” he begs, not caring a bit how desperate he sounds. He is desperate. “Put it in, Harry, fuck.”

Harry groans, clenching his eyes shut, but then he shifts Louis in his arms so he’s tipped back a bit, and then -- and then, Jesus, he’s only holding Louis up with one arm because the other one is reaching down to guide his cock into Louis’ arse, finally, fucking _finally_.

If he makes a sound when Harry pushes in, he doesn’t hear it. His head tips back and bangs against the wall, and even that barely registers.

“Oh my God,” Harry is panting against Louis neck. “Oh, God, Lou, _fuck_. How’re you still so _tight_ , Jesus.”

“I don’t -- shut up,” Louis says, weakly. He can’t think about words right now, or questions. Fuck, Harry’s so much bigger than the plug, and he’s still holding Louis up against the bloody wall, nearly bent in half and taking Harry’s prick, and he just -- he can’t _think_. He still has his bloody t-shirt on.

“So wet for me,” Harry continues. He pulls back an inch and thrusts back in, jolting Louis against the wall.

“Oh God,” Louis says weakly. “Do -- again. C’mon, fuck me.”

Harry’s arms are starting to shake a bit, and Louis doesn’t know if its the exertion of holding him up, or if Harry feels as near to coming apart at the seams as he does, but he grits his teeth, adjusts his grasp on Louis’ arse, and then starts to thrust his hips up.

It’s so much better than the plug that for a moment Louis can’t remember why he wasted his bloody time with that in the first place. Harry’s _big_ , and he fucks like he’s as desperate for it as Louis is, his hips going erratic as he loses his rhythm and then finds it again. He smells like spice and cologne and sweat and his hands are pressed into the meat of Louis’ arse as he holds him up, and fuck, nothing in the world has ever made him feel like Harry fucking Styles.

“Everyone in the bloody hotel is gonna hear,” Harry gasps against his jaw as he fucks into him. It sets a framed watercolor of a windmill clattering. “Gonna hear me fucking you against the wall, hear you come on my cock.”

“Good,” Louis says a bit hysterically. “Fuck, good, I don’t _care_ , I just want--”

“Do it,” Harry says. “Touch yourself, I want you to come.”

Louis doesn’t need to be told again -- he shoves the hem of his shirt up with the hand that’s not wound around Harry’s neck and then grasps his prick, nearly whimpering as he starts to jerk himself.

It’s less than a minute, probably -- less than a minute of Harry thrusting into him, of his hand on his cock and the wall scratching at his back and the sounds Harry makes as he struggles to keep himself together -- before Louis is coming messily, shooting off over his fist and up Harry’s stomach, his eyes shut so tightly he sees spots of light flashing behind them.

“Fuck,” he hears himself saying. “Fuck, Harry, don’t stop.” It’s too much, it’s all too much, the way Harry’s still fucking holding him up even as his arms shake, and the drag of his cock against Louis’ arsehole, and how Louis is _still_ fucking coming like he might not ever stop. He chokes out a sob and tips his forehead down to rest on the curve of Harry’s shoulder where his shirt is slipping off, trying to get a proper lungful of air.

“I can’t -- I’m gonna,” Harry gasps.

“Do it,” Louis says weakly. His heart feels like it might beat out of his chest from his own orgasm, but he still wants to feel Harry come inside him, fill him up -- to mark his place, the one the toy was only ever really a placeholder for.

“I’ll drop you,” Harry says apologetically. “Hold on, just…”

Reluctantly, he pulls out of Louis, both of them groaning when the head of his prick catches on the rim of Louis’ hole. Harry takes a deep breath like he’s steadying himself, and then lets Louis down carefully, setting his feet on the floor like he’s something breakable.

For an instant, when Harry steps back, Louis feels self-conscious. He’s naked from the waist down, and he’s got his own come all over him, and his dick is still at half mast, somehow, and objectively he knows it’s a bit of a funny picture.

Harry doesn’t seem to notice, though, because he just palms his own slick cock once before stepping out of his jeans and pants -- still caught around his knees, up until now -- and then grabs Louis firmly by the wrist, yanking him the five steps it takes to reach the bed and then pushing him down into it.

“You’re something else,” he says as he pulls the last button of his shirt -- the one Louis hadn’t managed -- open before tossing it carelessly on the ground. One frantic, hysterical bit of Louis’ brain stops to think about how many hundreds of pounds that shirt must’ve cost, and he almost wants to laugh, because now it’s crumpled on the floor of a hotel room, dotted with come and probably missing a button.

None of which seems to register with Harry whatsoever, if the way he’s staring at Louis with an almost frantic, laser-like focus is any indication. He’s not sure Harry could name the city they’re currently in, if pressed. Then again, he’s not sure if he could either.

The haze of a day spent being plugged up hasn’t worn off even after he’s come, and he appreciates the way Harry looks in a sort of dim way, unable to say a word about it or do anything other than stare him down.

“Take this off,” Harry murmurs, reaching for the hem of Louis’ shirt and tugging it up. They do it together and Harry’s quick to hunch and suck a kiss below his collarbone, like he’s been waiting to do that all day. It’s more intimate than Louis supposes he deserves for what has so far been the most frantic fuck of his _life_ , and he doesn’t want Harry to hesitate because he thinks he needs that from him.

“C'mon, you’re not finished,” Louis mutters, as if that’s not obvious, but Harry’s already positioning himself between his legs and hitching one around his waist, squeezing his way up his thigh until Louis feels a stretch there. Harry reaches between them and then covers Louis’ mouth with his own, kissing him warm and wet as if it might take the edge off when he slips back inside of him. It doesn’t, really; the kiss is wrecked by them both exhaling hard against each others’ lips, the closeness of it making it that much hotter. 

“Fuck,” Harry whispers as he starts to move inside of him, squeezing Louis tight on the hip and on his arm like he can’t take it. “God, _fuck_ , there’s nothing like this,” he gets out, his voice hoarse. Louis knows; it’s like Harry’s just read his mind.

The pace is no slower than it was when they were against the wall, but Louis feels it differently; deeper and harder, too, now that Harry’s relentlessly pounding him into the bed with both palms pressed on either side of Louis’ shoulders. Louis really didn’t think he’d be able to, not after how intensely he’d come, but he reaches down to touch himself, his cock still sticky and sensitive. 

“Oh my god,” Harry says when he notices Louis’ hard again, and he drops down onto his elbows, huffing and groaning his way into faster thrusts. “I’m gonna--”

It’s a fair enough warning, and Louis stops touching himself to rake both hands back through Harry’s hair the way he likes, pulling hard just as Harry’s body goes tight and then immediately limp. His head drops onto Louis’ chest but his hips haven’t stopped, the thrusts getting slower but no less hard, which feels fucking _amazing_. Louis feels full, good full, the kind of full he’d been seeking out when he decided the plug was a good idea in the first place -- only how could that replace this heat, Harry’s cock pulsing inside of him long after he ought to have pulled out?

Louis pats him on the shoulder to beckon him for a kiss, which Harry gives him, simultaneously coming onto his elbows and slipping his leg between Louis’. His cock is going soft inside of him, but he seems unwilling to pull out just yet, and Louis isn’t exactly looking forward to that emptiness.

“Gonna come again?” Harry asks against his lips, his eyes blinking open. “All full like this? Think you could?” He kisses him again, leaves Louis with no chance to answer. “I think you can.”

Harry pulls out, then, and Louis can’t stop the way he moans as his hole clenches. The emptiness feels strangely awful, even after hours spent desperate to get the plug out.

Harry doesn’t muck about, though, just slides down the bed until he’s knelt between Louis’ legs.

“That,” he says quietly, stroking one long finger along the crease of Louis’ arse, trailing up his balls, “is _such_ a lovely sight.” His finger wipes away a streak of his own come that’s leaking out, and his free hand grasps at Louis’ hip. “Love it when you’re full up with it,” he almost whispers.

“Harry,” Louis whines. He thinks he should be self-conscious or summat, with Harry this close, peering at his wet arse so intently, but all he wants to do is spread his legs wider, so he does.

He knows, as soon as two of Harry’s fingers slip in, that he Harry was right -- he can come again, and he will, if Harry keeps that up. His fingers are so bloody long, can always find that spot inside him that eludes him when he’s on his own, wrist cramping up at awkward angles. That’s half the reason he bought the plug, honestly, although now that seems pointless when it could be Harry’s hands doing it for him.

“Jesus, you feel good,” Harry tells him. His hand is already a slick mess as he presses and pulls his come out of Louis, slicking his rim and dripping down Harry’s wrist. “Don’t you?”

“Oh my god,” Louis whispers, flinging his hand down to grasp for Harry’s, but he can’t reach and he settles on his shoulder to dig in hard, a silent plea for more. Harry's fingers are moving, now, but not inside of him; just around his rim, pressing his thumb in and then each of his fingers at a time, just playing with him until Louis starts to shake.

“I know,” Harry says, consoling, thumbing his rim one more time. “God, you’re so good like this. Loving every second of this, aren’t you? It’s so hot, Louis, this is just--” He sweeps up some dripping come and presses it back inside of him, followed by two fingers that make Louis yelp after what feels like ages of light, teasing touches.

He won’t last long, now, and Harry must know that, because he twists his fingers and presses them so hard that he lifts Louis’ hips off the bed and it’s just -- god, it feels fucking incredible to manipulated like that.

Louis thinks he might come from _just_ his fingers, honestly, but he still reaches down to squeeze and pull at his own dick. There’s nothing graceful or practiced about the way it happens: Louis tugs at himself once more and hears Harry’s muttered encouragements, squints his eyes, and with that comes again, gasping as Harry’s fingers continue to fuck him on his way through it.

“Oh my god, wait--” He bats Harry’s hand away before it starts to hurt, and falls back onto the bed with his arms flung out to the side, limp and sweaty and messy all over. He stares at the ceiling for several shaky breaths, blinking until his vision returns to normal.

For a moment the only sound is the out of sync labored breathing coming from the two of them. Harry slumps onto his side next to Louis and rests his hand over Louis’ belly, and they both watch it rise and fall as they try to catch their breath. They could both use a very long shower, and Louis finally feels ready to eat something, too. Mostly he’s just exhausted, and when he rolls to face Harry, he looks it, too.

He rests his hand on Louis’ hip and brushes over the bone, eyeing him curiously and, yes, perhaps a big smugly. “Alright?”

Louis nods. “Don’t look like that.”

“Like what?” Harry is the portrait of innocence as he leans in to press a sweet peck against Louis’ lips, smiling so wide he can feel it when they kiss. With no comeback in mind, Louis clutches the side of Harry’s neck and draws him in for another. It feels good, now that he can enjoy it; it’s like the first deep breath after a marathon.

He pulls away first and drops his head to the mattress, sighs and stares up at Harry’s pink cheeks and his red mouth and wild hair, feeling happy and calm and a little grateful -- the polar opposite of the tied-up knots he’d been in all day.

“So I was thinking,” Harry starts.

“Hm?”

“How about,” Harry says, pressing up onto his hands so he can hover over Louis’ body. “Next time you need something up your arse, you just come to me, yeah?”

“Oh my God,” Louis groans, batting him away weakly and trying not to laugh. “That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard.”

Harry shrugs and smiles, clearly pleased with himself, and then bends down to nuzzle at Louis’ neck, flopping all his weight on top of him mercilessly.

“Get off, you great ape,” Louis gasps.

“Already did,” Harry mumbles, apparently disinclined to move, and Louis groans again -- he can feel Harry’s smile against his neck.

“Fine. We’ll stay here until you crush me to death and then you can explain that to everyone, why there’s a corpse covered in jizz in your bed.”

“‘S’your bed,” Harry says, rolling off him.

“Not the point.”

“We can stay here, though, yeah?” Harry asks. “I mean, not until one of us is a corpse, but for a bit, right? Don't wanna move for like, a long time.”

Louis pretends to mull it over, scrunching up his face a bit. They need to get their come off of them both before they’re permanently stuck together, and at least order some food up for supper, and probably twelve other things he’s forgetting to get them ready for tomorrow’s six a.m. wake-up, but at the moment, none of that feels terribly important.

“Yeah,” Louis says, shoving himself forcibly into the cradle of Harry’s arms until he’s tucked right up against his collarbone. “We can stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> we're on tumblr [here](http://quitefinished.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
